


Good Golly Miss Molly

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Drag Queens, Families of Choice, M/M, The 80s AU, Transgender Characters, bodhi/cassian hinted at very very vaguely, minor background bodhi k2 and jyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: Baze Malbus, security guard, meets "Baomei" Chirrut Imwe when they're young.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know shit all about drag so please hmu if i'm way out of my lane. 
> 
> TW: HIV hinted at, vaguely.
> 
> How I imagine 80's Chirrut: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/37/a4/15/37a415f2993fc558f359f3bcece13b5a.jpg

 

-2017-

The security guard’s’ common room was far less luxurious than the Queen’s’, which suited Baze greatly. For one, while he had grown used to the smell of heavy perfume, he still prefered not to be smothered in it, and while the perpetual B.O. of heavyset guards could sometimes be just as bad, it did not give him the same kinds of headaches. 

If he was honest, he spent most of his time stood outside the building itself, smoking as he typed endless emails on his phone, silently running the business away from the people inside it. 

Today was raining, and the guards weren’t at their most rancid, so he opted for a seat in a corner, away from where the (mostly) new recruits were playing cards. Kay and Jyn were tied neck and neck in their daily blackjack championship, Bodhi adding small “1”s next to each of their names on the staff whiteboard.

A couple of the more nameless staff were making coffee, one of them set the task of tea-run for the Queens currently beginning to rehearse in the upstairs studio.

“Boss?”

Baze looked up from his phone, saving his half-written email to a supplier to his drafts. 

“Settle an argument for us, will you?” Jyn asked, much to Kay’s annoyance.

“ _ I  _ said we weren’t to disturb you,” Kay said, their voice taking on their best goody-two shoes impression.

Baze shrugged one shoulder, not in a foul enough mood to dismiss them out of hand.

“If you had to pick any of them,” Jyn said, head nodding at the upstairs room, “Which would you date?”

“Objectively,” Kay added, with warning. “And as Queens, not as people.”

“‘Objectively’?” Baze echoed, attention dropping back to his blank screen, feigning interest in it. He could sense that the kids were hanging on to whatever scrap of attention he fed them, could hear them think  _ holy shit _ , not thinking that he would deign to even treat their hypothetical seriously.

“Yeah, so, you don’t know what any of them are like. Just by…” Jyn thought. “Tonight’s performance.”

Baze pretended to think for a moment, playing a game of pianotiles, knowing it made him look like he was back to his email writing. Then, when he knew the kids were giving up hope on an answer, he said “Baomei” with a decisive fullstop, not encouraging any further question.

“‘Objectively’, he says! Like the Boss would be objective when Mum’s in the running.” 

“‘Mum’?” Baze echoed quietly as Jyn shouted “No fair, you have to vote for mum ‘cos you’re dad!”

He looked between Jyn and Kay, the pair taking wallets from their inner jacket pockets, still grumbling as they dug twenties out and handed them to a rather pleased-looking Bodhi. 

“Baomei is mother,” Bodhi explained. “I put  _ my _ bet on daddy picking mummy.”

“Such a mummy’s boy,” Jyn complained, kicking the table with one booted foot, earning her a raised eyebrow from a still rather concerned Baze.

“I thought I told you to stay away from her.” Baze pocketed his phone, tightening his tie in preparation for what he would  _ make  _ a serious conversation. The last time Baomei had stepped foot in security’s common room, Baze had been left with no door staff and three new Queens. 

“She-” Jyn started, but then deferred to her brethren.

Kay shrugged, examining the end of their tie as if the material was suddenly facinating. “I shall play no part in it.”

Baze pinned his gaze on Bodhi, who looked between his siblings with betrayal. 

“Spill it, mummy’s boy,” Jyn said, jabbing Bodhi with a finger as he sat on the couch beside her.

Bodhi shook his head, loyal to a tee. Baze cut his losses and turned back to Kay. “Fiver towards your next blackjack round.” 

Kay held a hand out, instant, not retracting it until Baze had pulled a crumpled note from his wallet and handed it over.

“Chirrut comes in when you’re smoking, says he’s here for the free coffee, says we keep the best one from the Queens.” 

They were, Baze thought, but that was beside the point. “But?” he asked, sensing Kay’s desire to hear their own voice.

“But  _ we  _ all know his real reason.” When Baze did not respond to their attempt at a provocation, Kay sighed. “He’ll sit on the counter,” Kay said, pointing at the offending piece of furniture, “Watching you out the window.”

“He’s blind.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kay said in their perfect imitation of Chirrut.

“He’ll be all misty eyed as he sends you longing looks,” Jyn said, feigning Chirrut’s lovestruck expression.

“If you guys don’t get it on and date  _ soon _ ,” Kay said, throwing their arms in the air, “only the Lord Himself knows what punishment you’ll face for your godawful dilly dallying.”

Jyn turned to Bodhi on the couch and stage whispered “Kay wants mummy and daddy to fuck,” as if to a kid. 

Bodhi whacked her arm, acting very much like the squamish kid.

“Next time he comes in here,” Baze said, standing, you tell him either he turns his dresses in for a suit, or he pays for the good coffee like you do.”

Baze walked out to a chorus of ‘Oooh!’s, like teenagers eager for a fight.

“D’you think he is one?” Baze heard Jyn ask as he closed the door.

“Certainly rich enough,” Kay agreed.

“Oh God,” Bodhi said, evidently coming to the same conclusion. “Our dad’s a daddy.”

-1982-

“Consider it a bonus.”

“I would rather not.” Baze made to stand, only to have a firm, sharkish smile pin him to his seat. 

“Sit, Malbus. Meet the girls. Know who you’re going to be protecting for the foreseeable future.”

Baze’s involuntary reaction was to grunt his simple displeasure, but at a further look from the person likely to be his boss for the next few months, he managed a nod and a “yes, Sir.”

The proprietor gave him a good squeeze on the shoulder, then left him on the couch in one of the more further-back booths, hidden in the dark. This, at least, suited Baze. He glanced at his watch. Five past five. The show wouldn’t begin until half seven, at least, and he wondered if he was expected to wait in the booth until then. 

His shift, the proprietor had told him, would begin at ten, so he could learn how to close and cash-up when the bar closed at 3. He had been planning on going home for a nap before that,  so, now, with those hopes dashed, he sat back in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

-

He awoke to the sound of someone watching him. He kept his breaths steady, mimicking his own sleep while he assessed how to proceed. He could hear the other person, just across the table. They were watching him with intent, not because they were spacing out.

When the person did not move for three minutes, Baze shifted. The other person did not seem to want to harm Baze, which only served to confuse him.

“Can I help you?” Baze asked, opening one eye in what he hoped looked sagely, like an old man under an apple tree, disturbed by a young child. 

Big blonde haired, big blushy make-uped, big blue eyed  _ Queen _ , bent in some sort of power-stance pose, feet shoulder distance apart, one elbow on the table, chin in palm, staring, unabashed. Her eyes did not flicker or roam as she stared. 

“Hah!” she laughed, “I heard you blink!”

Baze could think of no other reaction than to blink, again, caught completely off guard. 

“I win!” she exclaimed, grin stretching as she stood to her full height, her heels pushing her well past six foot. 

Baze wiped a hand across his face, the post-nap sleepiness coming back to him. He looked at his watch. Five to seven. Three more hours before he could even begin to think about working. 

“You’re not asking me what I won,” the woman asked, coming to sit herself beside Baze, a waft of perfume coming with her, threatening to choke him with its power. Baze designated her ‘Eyes’, and wondered how the woman could smell anything with the stench overwhelming her.

“Should you not be preparing for your show?” Baze asked, keeping his eyes forwards as Eyes twisted in her seat to once again resume staring, elbow on table, hand on cheek. 

Baze watched as a man in black hoovered the stage, pretending to be mesmerised by the slow back and forth of the hoover.

“I’ll consider whether I should be offended by your not thinking I  _ am _ ready,” Eyes said, smile saying she was not as offended as she pretended to be. When Baze did not respond, she turned towards the hoover too. “It was a staring contest.”

“I was asleep.”

“So you had a head start. I’m all for giving out handicaps,” Eyes said, touching her shoulder to Baze’s. 

“You’re blind.”

“So I’m told,” Eyes said, covering one of Baze’s hands with his own. “One day someone will tell me something I don’t know.” 

Baze glanced at her from the corner of his eye.  _ Your make-up is shit _ , he thought.  _ I could do better.  _ He faced forwards again. “You’ll be late.” Eyes straightened herself away from Baze, nodded, then scooted out of the booth. 

Baze steadfastly refused to watch her leave, knowing, without a doubt, that the way she walked towards the backstage area, hips swinging, was meant for him. 

-

It was cold. Fuck, it was cold. England was supposed to be grey, miserable, rainy. Why was it so cold? His breath formed clouds in the air. There was something satisfying about the way the breath formed, something cathartic. It made him want to smoke. His hand wrapped around the packet of tobacco in his pocket and he cursed his penchant for roll-ups. 

Pros, the warmth and satisfaction of smoking. Cons, his hands were already like ice, forcing them to attempt the fiddly process might end with whatever was left in the packet landing on the damp floor— 

_ Too close _ , he thought, half a second before he wheeled and flipped the person behind him to the floor with a hard thud and a clatter. Baze’s defenses were well and truly raised, his fists ready to punch. It was only once the automatic mist of adrenaline had filtered from his brain did he look at his would-be assailant.

Baze’s innards sank.

A young man in ratty clothing, red-faced from the cold, the weapon a white stick thrown a few metres to the side.

Baze dropped to his knees instantly, hands coming to check the man’s head, thankful for the cold so the man’s breaths were visible. Slightly fast, but regular. The man’s head was shaved, easy to check for injuries. He turned the man’s head from side to side, gentle, before letting out a relieved breath of air.

“I’m so incredibly sorry. Are you in pain?”

A hand gripped Baze’s leg, desperate. The man’s eyes were opening, his face contorted with pain. “Something’s wrong…” the man said, his voice weak.

Baze’s heart picked up its pace, one hand coming to cover the man’s on his thigh, hoping to provide comfort. He glanced about himself. No-one. He’d have to wait for another stranger before he could go find a payphone. “I’ll call for an ambulance, just, relax, tell me what’s wrong.”

The man flipped his hand to lock their fingers together. Baze gave him a consoling squeeze. “I think…” the man said, his face turning as if to meet Baze’s eye, “I think I’m blind.”

Baze blinked, then frowned. Brain damage? Amnesia? He’d made this man bleed internally, causing memory problems, distress, who knew what else… 

The man’s lips were trembling. 

“Here, if you’re cold,” Baze said, attempting to shuck his coat, but the man did not let his hand go, insisting on keeping their hands together. Baze’s eyes flicked back from their joined hands to the man’s face.

Any trace of patheticness had disappeared, replaced with a familiar shit-eating grin. Crinkled corners of eyes. The beginnings of a laugh. 

_ Legs _ , he thought. The man started to sit up, then jumped to his feet, dragging Baze with him, only releasing his hand once they were up. 

“So now you begin to recognise me,” Legs said, foot reaching out to catch his stick, dragging it towards himself until he could kick it into his hand.

“From the club.” Baze watched as Legs brushed dirt off the stick, swallowing a rush of hurt pride. “I am truly sorry to have acted so rashly.”

“You heard a man approaching your personal boundaries and you assumed he was an assailant, as one in your line of work might assume.”

“One in my line of work might look before they leap.”

“Well, I shall serve as a useful example, then.” Legs grinned. “No harm done. You know that I am in prime physical condition.”

Baze’s mouth opened to contend him, but he fell short of a reply. “You say that as if I—” Baze closed his mouth. There was no way to save grace; either he admitted to have been watching the man, or he attempted to deny it. 

“Well?” Legs asked, twirling slightly on the spot.

“Excuse me?”

“Well?” Legs repeated, turning around. “You handed me my ass. Is it covered in shit?”

It was a curious mix of sensation, guilt and humour. Baze inspected Legs’ clothes. “Slightly damp,” he said, his downturned mouth softening slightly to see the wet patch on Legs’ backside. “No shit, s’far as I can see.”

“Excellent,” Legs said, making no motion to move. His fingers tapped against his cane, obviously in thought. “Are you getting the bus?”

Baze nodded. Then, slightly guilty about his non-vocal answer, cleared his throat. “N63.” Now twitchy with self-consciousness, Baze pulled out his papers, stuck a filter between his lips and began pinching tobacco into a tight line, cold be damned. Once done, he adjusted the filter, licked, tucked and rolled, forcing his fingers to behave despite the chill biting at them. “Mind if I smoke?”

“What?” Baze asked, prompted by the man’s disbelieving expression.

“Is it not polite to ask where the other person is going?”

“I don’t particularly care where you go.” 

Legs’ hand whipped to his chest in a melodramatic clutch, his face distorted with pain. “You knock a poor blind person to the floor, and you don’t even care how he’s to get home?”

“I thought you were at the peak of your physical prime?”

“You do know how to flatter a man,” Legs said with a teasing lilt. “I don’t mind,” he said, eventually, inclining his head at the cigarette.

Baze lifted the cigarette to his lips and lit it, one hand cupped around the tip to prevent the wind from blowing out the embers. Once he’d made sure it wouldn’t go out, he offered it to Legs. 

“No, thank you.”

“I can roll another,” Baze said, patting his pockets. Legs did not need to know that it was unheard of for Baze to offer to roll for anyone but himself. 

Legs held his hand up in polite rejection. “I appreciate the offer, but I would prefer to keep my throat healthy.”

Baze hm-ed around his cigarette.

“You sound surprised.”

Baze shrugged. Inhaled. Exhaled. Flicked ash to the floor.

“I’m a performer,” Legs said, his tone suggesting he was mostly talking to himself. “I have to keep physically fit.”

Inhale. Exhale. Flick. “Suit yourself.” 

-

The bus was thankfully warm, the inside windows fogged up with breath, steam, sweat. It was mostly empty, a few seats populated by drunks, the hard working and the sheepish businessman. Baze and Legs were the only two sat together, Baze pressed against the window, Legs bundling close. He looked cold, even in the veritable sauna that was the bus. Baze endeavoured to ignore him. He startled when Legs leaned across him and wrote characters in the fog on the window. 

“Baomei.”

“Baomei?” Baze repeated, keeping the curiosity out of his voice.

“They wanted to call me Kandi,” he said, stretching out a hand. “I wouldn’t let them. You can call me Chirrut.” Chirrut held his hand out, long after most would read Baze’s disdain and drop the offer. Chirrut kept his hand out until Baze took his hand and shook it. Chirrut smiled. Self-congratulatory.

“Why Baomei?”

“Why not?”

“Mei. ‘Sister’?” 

“Mostly coincidence.”

“Hm.” Baze said, unimpressed but polite on a professional level. “Baze.” 

“Baze?” Chirrut echoed, the smile still dripping from every feature of his face, “Is that your stage name, or…?”

Baze had never felt so vulnerable as just then--he tended to rely on the age-old adage ‘if looks could kill’ to protect himself from insult. Obviously, there was little that looks could do for this man. “I don’t have a stage name.”

“Great!”

“Great?” 

“This bus is starting to become an echo chamber,” Chirrut laughed. “‘Great’, because that means I have the honour of naming you.” The man draped himself on Baze with an uncanny precision, looping his arm through Baze’s, resting his cheek on Baze’s shoulder. Chirrut went very still for a half-second, before relaxing. Baze chose to ignore the man’s weird behaviour.

“I don’t need a stage name.” Baze stopped short of literally pushing the man away, but started to free his arm from Chirrut’s grip. Started. Attempted. Every finger he managed to pry away, it would return, the grip terrifying in its strength. Baze forgot about the verbal fight under the magnetising pettiness that Chirrut seemed to be displaying. “Will you let go?”

“Eventually,” Chirrut answered with a vague chirpiness. “Perhaps  _ you _ could be Kandi.”

“No.” Baze attempted to pry the fingers off of his arm one last time, a futile attempt, before releasing the tension from his muscles in defeat. “I won’t fight you on this.”

“You might like it. You should try everything once.”

“No.”

Chirrut’s head turned a little further, looking up at Baze. His face settled from its excitedness with a subtlety that reminded Baze of a light dimmer; a slow fading of happiness. Chirrut nodded. “It isn’t for everyone. But if you do change your mind…”

Guilt at having been the one to diminish Chirrut’s cheer made Baze nod. He could feel the mood souring and he swallowed. “I’m surprised you didn’t go for Kandi,” he said, tensing himself. He licked his lips, trying to stop a premature smile. “You could have been Miss. I. Kandi.”

Chirrut went as still as stone, before erupting in a wholehearted, gleeful laugh that made every bone of Baze’s body feel warm.

-

Baze had had a feeling it might end up this way, but he still sighed as he opened his front door, Chirrut on his heels. Chirrut didn’t seem the type to jump him, at least. He kicked off his shoes, then, after a second’s thought, pushed them to the side so Chirrut wouldn’t trip on them.

“Homeless?” Baze asked, flicking on lights until he reached the kitchen, taking two beers from the fridge and uncapping them. 

“Nope,” Chirrut confirmed, taking one of the bottles with a nod of thanks. “Just curious.”

Baze took a sip, swallowed slowly. “I’ll bite. ‘Curious’?”

“How long it would take for you to tell me to go home.”

Baze rolled his eyes, swigging again as he rooted in the nearly-empty fridge. He found half a pack of turkey and some iffy cheddar. “Hungry?”

“Vegetarian.”

“Cheese?”

Chirrut nodded, so Baze threw the turkey back in the fridge, took four slices of bread from the freezer and toasted them while he hacked the cheese into thin slices, warming the toastie maker. While he buttered the bread, spread the cheese and put the slapdash toasties in the machine, Chirrut walked around the room, one hand trailing walls and surfaces.  

“Nice place.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Cheap suit, cheap deodorant, security guard at a low-end drag bar in Angel.”

Baze nodded. Chirrut wasn’t wrong.The place was bigger than he should be able to afford, and Baze kept it clean and unornamented so it seemed even bigger. But the style of the decorating, last changed a couple decades ago if the 60s style was anything to go by, meant he’d been able to haggle the price down to affordable, as long as he didn’t spend too much on food. “You can’t see the paint job.” 

“That bad?”

Baze eyed the mustard-yellow cupboards and mould-green floral wallpaper. “Worse.”

Baze smiled at Chirrut’s laugh, then lightly pushed him out of the way so he could take plates out of the cupboard. He slid each plate under each toastie, scooping them up and handing the better-cooked one to Chirrut. 

Chirrut took a deep breath of the smell, then let it out with a satisfied ‘mm’. 

“You want a knife, or—” Baze cut himself off as he watched Chirrut devour the toastie in four huge bites, apparently caring little for the molten cheese oozing out of the bread as he bit.

_ Like a python detaching its jaw. _

Baze looked down at his own toastie, tore it in half (attempting not to show the pain he felt as cheese met finger,) and set one half down on Chirrut’s plate. This, too was demolished before Baze had taken a bite of his own, so he held out what remained, but Chirrut shook his head.

“Hungry, huh,” Baze said after he’d finished his half.

“Don’t get much time to eat.” 

“That was the last of the cheese,” Baze apologised. 

“It was good, thank you.” 

“It was a cheese toastie.”

“And a half.” Chirrut took their plates to the sink and washed them, careful, before setting them aside to dry.

Baze yawned, wondering vaguely how one proceeded from this strange domesticity. He glanced at the clock. “You’ll miss the last bus if you don’t leave now.”

“I know.” Chirrut set his beer bottle on the kitchen counter, then pushed himself onto it so he was sat, legs swinging, smile unmoving. “We’ll be the subject of  _ endless _ gossip tomorrow,” he said, the excitement of his tone making his voice sound younger, campier. “Arriving at the same time, in yesterday’s clothes…” Chirrut made an exaggerated expression of realisation. “Or in  _ your  _ clothes!”

“How will they know they’re my clothes,” Baze asked, knowing he should not be fuelling Chirrut’s taunts but tired enough not to resist.

“ _ Because _ ,” Chirrut said, “They’ll smell like you.”

Baze brought the beer to his lips. “And what do I smell like?” he asked, slowly, before taking a swig. He caught Chirrut’s considering smile, a controlled expression of pleasure. 

“Could I borrow your shower, Mr. Malbus?”

“Second on the right,” Baze said, nodding his head in the direction of the bathroom. “No spare towels. Mine should be clean.” He thought about the single bottle of shampoo and the simple bar of soap. Probably not too difficult to determine their purpose without sight. “Use whatever.”

-

_ Mr. Malbus _ , Baze thought once Chirrut had gone. The man had known his name, then. Probably asked the proprietor backstage.  _ Mr.  _ Baze smiled, then went to get Chirrut a change of clothes.

While he was at it, he changed out of his shirt and tie, removing weapons and safely stowing them in drawers. He could hear Chirrut singing one of his songs under the shower, so he took his time, pulling on his comfiest shirt, taking an older one out for Chirrut’s use, removing his only two pairs of pyjama pants and setting the more embarrassing pair aside for Chirrut. 

Not knowing what to do with Chirrut’s half-finished bottle, he placed it on the left side of the bed— presumptuous, perhaps, but the simpler option than what would inevitably come to be an feud between them. He played the hypotheticals out in his head:  _ I’ll sleep on the floor. You hate me that much? I’m used to the floor. But you’ll be sore tomorrow, how will you protect me? _ Fake swoon, and, scene, Baze gives up and they share the bed.

He sat on the edge of the bed, finishing his beer, one leg bouncing. It was strange to feel impatient. Impatience implied relying on someone to follow your schedule, and Baze had been independent since he was sixteen. Nearly ten years living by himself, never having to wait for someone to get out of the shower, never having to care about the state of his room, or whether there was anything to trip over. 

The sound of the shower cut off and, again impatient, Baze stood with the clothes, going to stand outside the bathroom. Once there, he debated knocking and entering (he could already hear Chirrut’s screamed ‘kyaa’) or waiting outside as if he’d been doing so the entire time.  _ Idiot Malbus _ , he thought, about to turn tail back to the bedroom when the bathroom door opened— 

Baze spun at the sight of skin and towel, then chastised himself for acting like a goddamn child. He cleared his throat and handed the clothes over his shoulder, before making a dash for the kitchen; there at least a neutral zone. 

-

Leaning his forehead against the cool plastic of the fridge door and wondering what on earth he was doing, he did not hear Chirrut enter the room until the man placed a still shower-warm hand between Chirrut’s shoulder-blades. Baze jumped, but reigned in the instinct to floor Chirrut for the second time. He turned once Chirrut had dropped his hand.

“What?” he asked, sounding accusatory, confused by the concern on Chirrut’s face.

Chirrut did not reply instantly. He was facing Baze, but something told him Chirrut was contemplating something internal. Finally, he opened his mouth. “You should take your binder off.” 

Baze felt his face catch fire, could feel his very cheeks burn, his heart pounding. He felt like he’d just stepped on a mine, his ears ringing. “Binder?” Baze choked, unable to breath.

He wanted to ask  _ how _ ,  _ how could a blind man see, if a blind man could tell, how could he pass with anyone else—  _ he was knocked askew by Chirrut, could not dodge Chirrut as the man stroked a knuckle against Baze’s smooth cheek, his face the very picture of worry. 

“Shh,” Chirrut hushed, stroking, gentle.

Defrosting slightly, Baze took a step back, finding himself pressed against the fridge and feeling stifled, needing air, needing… anything. To be away from this man. To be free from his secret.

Chirrut held his hands up in surrender, face still worried. Then, slowly, he lifted the hem of his t-shirt on one side, pulling up until his chest. 

Twin pink scars. Chirrut looked down at own his chest as if he could see them, then back at Baze. “I guess you could say I’m more likely to notice,” Chirrut said into the silence, sounding anxious now that Baze still had not spoken. “You’ve been wearing it for too long. Your breathing is tighter.”

“There’s no way you could have noticed.” Baze’s frown was tight.  _ Breathing? Chirrut could hear him breathe differently?  _

“And,” Chirrut conceded, “I noticed the fabric when I was leaning on your shoulder in the bus. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“But—” Baze, still feeling constricted, took a sidestep to the left to free himself from Chirrut’s  _ breathing.  _ “You’re a  _ drag Queen _ .” Baze closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, nevermind. But you’re…” Again, he stalled. “Sorry. Don’t you worry they’ll think you pass too well?”

Chirrut shrugged. “Of course. But  _ I  _ know that I’m a man, and  _ I  _ know that I’m a Queen.” 

Baze was not convinced. He could tell Chirrut could sense that, that they could both feel the conversation begin to sour. He waved a hand, as if to disappear the conversation. “I like these by the way.” Chirrut pulled at the bow tightening the pyjama bottoms, severe in its intensity of pinkness. His other hand stroked the material covering his thigh. “And are these horses? In glitter?”

“Unicorns.” Though Baze had almost burnt the pyjamas in several rage-fuelled bonfires over the years, he now thanked his past self for not destroying them for this moment alone. 

“Ahh,” Chirrut said, as if with deep understanding. “I hope these are at least one shade of pink.”

“Three,” Baze confirmed.

“And to think I didn’t take you for a pink man!”

Baze hovered for a second on the edge of a laugh, before deciding to let it go. Chirrut knew him as Baze, and that was okay. He could laugh, so he did so. 

Once he had calmed, slightly, panic and possibly hysteria fading back to comfortable levels, he rooted through his coat pocket for his tobacco. “My parents didn’t take masculinity too well.” Pink pyjamas, ultra feminine clothes… Baze’s parents had thought that the more they dressed him as a girl, the more girlish he would become. Finding his materials, he performed the same ritual as before. “You want a smoke?”

“You’re going outside?” Chirrut asked, almost disgusted. “Now?”

“You want one?” he repeated, not sure he was comfortable leaving Chirrut alone inside.

“But it’s so cold. Why do you want to form cancer when you could be forming sleep.” 

Baze shrugged. “Suit yourself. Bedroom’s opposite the bathroom. I sleep on the right.” He pulled on his coat, still cold from the outside despite the house’s heat. “Do us a favour,” Baze said, already regretting his decision to go outside, “Warm it up for me, will you?”

-

Baze was incredibly thankful for the heat of the water at whatever the time of morning it was by the time he managed to get under the shower. He preferred the water on the verge of scalding and, by the way the temperature had been left to this degree, so did Chirrut. A strange thing to find out about a man.

He thought about shaving as he ran his fingers through his hair. It was reaching his neck now, about six months since he’d last shaved it to the skin, and there was a faint wave running through it. He liked it long, thought it suited his face more, but the longer the hair, the higher the frequency of misgendering… 

He pushed the hair out of his face and considered asking Chirrut. The thought alone made him bench shaving, at least until they’d established a point where Chirrut could sugarcoat his words a little.

Finding his towel already wet was strange despite knowing why it was, and he found himself attempting to avoid the damp middle in favour of the dryer outer rim.  _ He’d have to buy a spare towel. _ He tried not to think about that assumption. 

He pulled his pyjama pants back on, then paused. Binder. 

-

He walked quietly, arms crossed across his chest, watching the mound of blankets on the left rise slowly, up and down. He’d had a long day, Baze thought. Chirrut did at least deserve the sleep.

Baze perched himself on the edge of the bed, then tucked himself under the duvet as cautiously as possible. Baze silently thanked his basic soap for its ability to scrape away even the powerful scent of perfume Chirrut had been carrying with him. He had not been looking forwards to attempting to wash it out of his sheets. Once he had positioned himself comfortably, he opened an eye to peek at Chirrut, worried that he’d woken him.

Chirrut was facing him, eyes closed but smiling, and definitely not asleep. Baze felt his face heat again, embarrassed to have been caught being so considerate. 

“You’ve ruined all my fun,” Chirrut whispered.

Baze resolutely closed his eyes, rolling onto his back. “How do you figure?”

“I was going to complain that you were cold,” Chirrut told him, snuggling into Baze’s pillows as if they were his own. “Then I was going to offer to warm you up.”

“Hmm.” Baze kept his voice neutral. He listened to Chirrut breathe for a few minutes longer, lulled by the sound.

“I’m sorry,” Chirrut said, after a beat. “For making fun of your name. If I had known…”

“I’ll get used to it,” Baze said, gruff. Chirrut stilled, and Baze took a breath. “You’re the first. ...To know me as Baze.”

Chirrut gasped, exaggerated, excited, and this time his snuggle took him closer to Baze, one hand on Baze’s forearm. “It’s an honour, Baze.”

Baze just snorted and turned his face further away. 

“Hey Baze?”

This time, Baze’s ‘hm’ was slightly less neutral, erring more to the sleepy. 

“You know a lot about drag queens.”

“...I’m a security guard. I watch. You. Watched you.”

Baze did not need Chirrut’s not-sight-senses to know Chirrut was grinning. 

“Thank you for letting me stay, Baze.”

Baze swallowed, thinking about the binder that lay in his washing basket. He was too stubborn, too sleepy to say it, but he silently thanked Chirrut too. “Your singing in the shower,” Baze said instead, “You’re lucky you girls are known for lipsynching.”

Chirrut kissed him, his lips meeting the corner of Baze’s before pulling back. “Goodnight.”

Baze swallowed, all too audible in the silence. “Night.”

-

Baze had willfully cut the memory of the previous night’s performance from his brain.  _ Legs _ , he had called Chirrut. There had been a lot of leg on show from all of the girls, but Baomei’s performance had hinged very clearly on her strut, hence,  _ Legs. _

When Baze woke up, he was curled on his side and greeted by the sight of Chirrut doing his stretches, folded in half over splits. Glancing at the alarm clock, he found it wasn’t yet nine in the morning and Chirrut was stupidly active, one arm in a curve over his head. Baze blinked, the light of the room painful for his sleep-deprived eyes, then rolled over, bringing his own arm to rest over his face in a mimicry of Chirrut, dampening the light.

“Morning, Baze!”

Baze grunted, embedding himself deeper into the covers.

“Coffee?”

Baze grunted again, neither confirming or denying anything, brain shutting back down.

-

More prepared to be awake, Baze woke up at a quarter to eleven, aware that Chirrut was back in bed next to him. Or, on the bed, at least. He was sat, legs crossed, meditating. 

Baze pulled himself up so he, too, was sat with his back against the headboard, again moving carefully to avoid disturbing Chirrut. 

Smelling coffee, he looked to the side, where sat a paper coffee cup from a nearby café. The contents were now steadfastly lukewarm, and Chirrut had apparently dumped a dozen sachets of sugar into the milky black, but it was, after all, the sentiment that counted. 

It was a nice way to wake up. 

-

The whistling started as soon as the pair walked through the door, as if the Queens could  _ sense  _ the presence of gossip. Chirrut had attached himself to Baze’s arm, proud chest puffed out to best display the fact that he was wearing Baze’s nightshirt. 

“She was quick to mark her territory, Mr. Malbus,” a Queen applying her eyelashes told Baze once he’d been shoved into the backstage area and told to introduce himself. Brandi had dragged Baze onto one of the sumptuous couches at the back of the dressing room, where all those getting dressed could watch him through their mirrors.

“Practically jumped on you the moment she laid eyes on you,” said another, a third chiming in with a “It could have been me!”

Baze could not help but to feel somewhat smug at his seemingly high demand, as well as a little bit relieved that it  _ had  _ been Chirrut to have ‘claimed’ him. 

He spotted Chirrut, sat by a mirror in the corner, dressed now in a red satin dress, looking quite the cultural stereotype. He was beginning to apply foundation, dabbing his skin until it turned a pasty white. 

Baze watched as one might watch a car crash; frozen in place despite feeling wrenched to help. It was only once Chirrut pulled out eyeliner that Baze stood, giving a small nod at the Queens he’d been being babysat by and grabbed Chirrut’s hand until it stopped.

He removed the eyeliner from Chirrut— Baomei’s grip, brought a cloth to her face and wiped off the frankly  _ terrible  _ start she’d made. 

“Made any friends?” Baomei asked, sounding more than a little confused by Baze’s rejection of her makeup. 

“You remember last night, I told you how bad the paint in my house was?”

Baomei could not hide the hitch in her usual cheeriness. “That bad?”

Baze glanced around Baomei’s various palettes, considering. Brushes were dirty, foundation was muddy, colours were mixed without discrimination. He nodded. “Worse.”

There was a spot of make-up that gripped resolutely to Baomei’s cheek, so Baze held her jaw with one hand and scrubbed with the cloth with the other. “Okay?” Baze asked, once it had gone.

Baomei considered him for a second, before bringing a hand to Baze’s cheek, touching the same place Baze had scrubbed on her own face. She rested her hand there, for a second, shoulders tense and expression hard, before she softened. She nodded, relaxing as if an entitled movie star, welcoming Baze into her personal space. 

“For a price,” she said, coy.

“I’m not letting you do mine.” 

Baomei only grinned. “Nothing of the sort.” 

Baze considered this a second, thought about the terrible make-up from yesterday, and decided. He pulled a stool closer and got to work. 

“It feels different,” Baomei said quietly, once Baze had applied the finishing touches. “Less like paint.”

“Because you plastered it all over.” Baze picked a lipstick from the line, cleaned it with his thumb, then grabbed a brush. “Ahh,” he said, waiting until Baomei had opened her mouth before painting a full mouth. He had gone with the Chinese look, bright reds and golds, but, he thought, probably not as in-your-face as Baomei would have done.

Baomei rolled her lips together, then batted her eyelids with due extravagance, standing to strike a pose. “What do I look like?” 

Baze sat back to take her in, completely dwarfed by her. He nodded. “Beautiful.” Baomei grinned, leaned over and planted a much less chaste kiss on Baze’s lips, transferring enough colour to make his look purposefully painted. 

“Eugh,” Baze groaned as he wiped the lipstick off with the back of his hand, hating the sticky feel of it.

Baomei fitted her wig, then flicked it with flair. “Payment received, Mr. Malbus.”

“Don’t you have rehearsals to be doing?”

Baomei pulled her tight-fitting dress down from where it had ridden up, tussled Baze’s hair and strode away. “See you later, Baze,” she called, waving one hand over her shoulder.

Baze looked at the arrangement of make-up left on the table, beginning to clean brushes, clean palettes, etcetera, wondering what to do with the rest of his day. Technically, he started at ten, and it was not just past three in the afternoon.

Once he’d calmed, slightly, from the kiss, he noticed the quiet of the room. He looked about, catching the eye of more than one Queen, who immediately turned away, as if they hadn’t just been watching the entire debatical. 

Baze felt every drop of blood in his body rise to his cheeks as he stood, bid them all a good day and ran to the backroom dedicated to the security guards.

-2016-

Baze reached into his jacket pocket and dumped a small mountain of packaged condoms on the table. 

“Uh,” the young man said, eloquently, bright eyes suddenly very terrified.

“Take however many you want, give out the rest tonight. Anyone asks for one, you give it to them. Think someone’s going home, give them one. You run out, you get some from the back. You make sure anyone having sex tonight has one, you understand?”

“Yes, boss.”

Baze nodded.

“You said I could keep some?”

Baze nodded. “Consider it a bonus.”

The young man made to stand, evidently taking that as the end to this bizarre interview, only to have Baze’s firm, calloused hand push him back into his seat.

“Sit, Rook. Meet the girls. Know who you’re going to be protecting for the foreseeable future.”

Rook made a rather mouse-like squeak, but managed a nod and a quiet “yes, Sir.”

Baze gave him a good squeeze on the shoulder, then left him on the couch in one of the more further-back booths, hidden in the dark. Five past five. The show wouldn’t begin until half seven, at least, and he wondered if Rook would wait in the booth until then. 

Rook’s shift would begin at ten, so he could learn how to close and cash-up when the bar closed at 3. When he looked back, Luna had sat herself almost in Rook’s lap, Rook’s big eyes going a lot bigger. 

-

“And so the circle is complete.” 

Baze rolled his eyes as he unscrewed the eyeliner brush, Baomei grinning before him. “Shh,” he hushed, poking at her lips until they settled into the neutral he needed to do the points well.

“You remembered what the proprietor told you,” Baomei said between sweeps. “After twenty years.”

“You sound like an old man,” Baze told her, tilting her chin left and right to see if he’d got the liner equal. 

“We are old men.” Baomei patted Baze’s hand. “We went through wars in this building.”

Baze stayed silent.

“It was cute, treating him like yourself.” 

“So it  _ was _ you who sent Luna out there after him.”

“She took an interest when you were showing Bodhi around.”

“So you take no credit?”

Baomei’s lip curled in one corner, the most Baze would usually allow. “It worked out okay for us.”

“You’re insufferable, Baomei.”

This time, Baomei grinned. “But you’re still going to let me kiss you.”

Baze picked up Baomei’s lipstick, the last thing he applied. They had made it a rule since that first day that Baomei could only kiss him with lipstickless lips. Baze uncapped the lipstick, bringing it close to Baomei in a partial threat. “Do you not want payment?”

Baomei took Baze’s half-hearted attempt at threat with an equal amount of half-hearted reproach, leaning in towards Baze as if quite the seductress. Baze maintained his stony outer, never giving the appearance of reciprocating her kisses while in public. 

“I think Jyn and Kay will like Bodhi,” Baze said as Baomei fixed her wig, clicking her fingers at the younger Queens, who scrambled to finish dressing. 

“He had beautiful fingers,” Baomei said cryptically, and with a wink led her gaggle away towards the stage. 

Good security guards were like golddust these days, Baze thought, rather grumpy, without Baomei’s endless talent scouting. He’d have to keep a tight leash on the boy.

-2017-

“Mother?” Baze asked, watching Chirrut remove his own t-shirt for one of Baze’s; almost indistinguishable these days, though one of the oversized ones Baze still preferred.

“I love my children, and they love me.”

“Dad?” He pointed a finger at himself.

Chirrut’s gasp was giddy. “They called you daddy?”

“You didn’t instruct them to?”

“No!” Chirrut said, positively glowing. “Oh mummy does love her babies.”

Baze waited until Chirrut was in bed, half on top of Baze as he seemed to deem comfortable, before sighing, for the fuller dramatic effect. “Kay told me he thinks we should fuck. To my face.” He ran a hand through Chirrut’s hair, watching the short bristles spring under his fingers. 

“Not my most emotionally responsive child,” Chirrut said into Baze’s neck. “Ducky, too. Smart babies but always thinking about their cards. It makes mummy worry.”

Baze took Ducky to mean Jyn, wondering whether Chirrut had nicknames for every face in the bar. “Perhaps you should stop pestering them.”

“And leave you with all the good coffee?” Chirrut scoffed. 

“I think they’re betting on when we screw.”

“You let them think you hate me. We shouldn’t be letting our children think they live in a dysfunctional household. ...Would you like me to talk to them?” Chirrut asked, this time without teasing, genuine in his offer. 

Baze kissed Chirrut’s head absentmindedly, thinking about what the kids had said about Chirrut in the window. 

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad having children as spies. 

“Want to string them on?” Baze asked, eliciting a wide smile, which he felt warm his neck.

“I’d love nothing better,” Chirrut replied, bringing himself, as ever, impossibly closer to Baze. 

**Author's Note:**

> Very important research went into this fic. I saved 0 links but this one: https://www.thepapercupcompany.co.uk/about-paper-cup-company/history-paper-cup/


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